


Par

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 05:52:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10430544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Melkor’s no interior decorator.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for “Sub-par Decorating” prompt on [my bingo card](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/153917135000/my-holiday-themed-bingo-under-cut-you-can-make).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He returns with the head of an elf whose name was once important, but as Mairon reaches the central chamber of his fortress, the skull slips from his grasp, forgotten.

He removes his helmet next, thinking the blood’s obscured his vision, but the walls remain an oddity. Angband is a glorious stronghold, created exactingly to Mairon’s wishes, carved from obsidian and finished in gold. They’re now strung in silver, draped in crimson ribbons, and green sprigs are suspended from the ceiling. Mairon peers up at it, spinning in place, waltzing slowly about the room and sucking it all in. At first, he thinks some foolish orcs have dared each other to decimate the hall. But the decorations, though poorly done, are still too thoughtful for that. They were strung with purpose.

“Do you like it?” Melkor asks. A shiver runs down Mairon’s spine with the deep words. He never saw his master enter or heard the doors open, but suddenly, there’s a warmth behind him that surpasses his own fire. He’s pulled tight against a broad chest, a strong chin hooking over his slender shoulder. His red-yellow hair is swept aside, and into his ear, Melkor coos, “Well?”

Mairon doesn’t understand. He’s glad Melkor stands behind him and won’t see his confusion. The room is tacky and ridiculous—hardly things he’d attribute to his artful master. He asks, deliberately evading the question, “What is it?”

Melkor steps back, his embrace leaving the wisps of smoke along Mairon’s armour. He regrets himself immediately. Melkor strolls around him, looking both disgruntled and annoyed, then snaps in a far harsher tone, “I know you have missed the celebrations of your former home...”

He explains no more, but now Mairon can see it: they _are_ vaguely reminiscent of one of Yavanna’s parties. Perhaps it’s as close as this new earth can allow. Or perhaps Melkor was simply meant to destroy and not create.

Still, the weight of what Melkor’s done closes in on Mairon, and he whispers in sudden awe, “You did this for me?”

Melkor stiffly nods, and Mairon lights with his smile, delight banishing all his disapproval. It’s the thought, after all, that counts. At his pleased expression, Melkor seems to soften, and Mairon walks again into his arms, wrapping fast around him to sigh, “I am honoured; it is beautiful.”

He rewards Melkor with a fond peck on the cheek, but Melkor grabs his hair and wrenches him back for a scorching kiss that soon has the all ribbon lighting up in flames. 


End file.
